In summer's set, I catch a glimpse of the bedroom from outside in. Everything is recognizable yet once removed. My scarves hang from hooks behind the door. Books pile on the dresser and nightstand and ironing board. Closet doors open like an accordion drawing breath, as spacious as an arm's length.
Life is that way just now – accepting the light through tendered windows. My existence viewed (skewed?) from humidity staring inward.
It's hard getting out of bed these days. Purpose wanes to a foolish belief system. How my heavy limbs and anchored heart betray expressions of the unsaid. Everyday the goal resets: rise, avoid, descend. Yes; something must be done.
The water boils, but I cannot see its tiny eyes. In the pour I am saved. Have you considered the process instead of the result? My wrist only stirs the tea once, but in the action my soul is forever turned. Are you busy tomorrow at 10?
take tea with me / that I shall know / we are together / alone